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I lay on the couch, still wearing my clothes from the night before. I had just slipped into a lovely super-powers-awesome-long-hair-guitarist-for-Metallica dream when I was jolted into the waking world by the chiming of a door bell.

“What? Why?” I ask the pile of trash I had mistaken for my friend, Sam. My contacts were blurry and I was still in a sleep-deprived stupor.

The trash sat in silence, not awoken by the bell. I stumble to my feet, my legs feeling like jelly. I swing the door open, the frigid wind ripping through my frame. My eyes struggle for a moment to adjust to the brilliant morning light. After a moment, my vision is clear. Before me is an older, well dressed white gentleman and a younger black man, dressed likewise.

“Hello, sir. Thank you for opening the door for us.” I mumbled something that must have resembled “You’re welcome,” because the man smiled graciously and continued speaking. “I’m George McIntosh and this is my son, Evan.” I nod to both of them. “We’re here to talk to you about the Lord.”

“Oprah?” I ask, rubbing my eyes, my voice hoarse from sleep.

“Um, no, J–”

“Jack Nicholson.”

He chuckles politely. “You’re joking. We’re talking about G–”

“Stephen King.” I hold my hand up for a high five. The man gingerly puts his hand up and touches mine. It doesn’t make me feel excited or jacked at all. It makes my hand feel like it just got groped by a passing stranger.

“We understand that, but we’d like to share the message of Jehovah with you.”

Light bulb. “Ah, Jay-Z.”

“What? No.” The older man seems confused. His son is standing behind him, trying to conceal a small grin.

“HOVA.” I grunt. “H to the izzo. V to the izzay.”

“I’m sorry, I–”

“For shizzle my nizzle used to dribble down to VA.” Being able to quote rap songs makes me feel cool. That’s pretty much the expanse of my knowledge on the lyrics of that song, though, so I stop.

“I don’t quite understand your meaning.”

“Nobody does. Those are just nonsense words. They’re like audible candy.”

“Well, I know some words that are not ‘non-sense.'” The old man pulls a brown leather bag from its place at his hip, lifts the large flap at its front and reaches down into it. He pulls out a small book entitled What Does the Bible Really Mean? He then hands me the book. “Here are a number of things that people often misunderstand about the Bible. Here,” he says, pulling back the front cover while I hold it in place. “Here’s the table of contents.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I never know where to find those things.”

“Yes, well, here’s a good question the book raises: What is the true name of God?”

“Warden.”

“Warden?” The man seems shocked. “Why, no. Warden?”

“I’m tired,” I say, leaning heavily on the front door. “I don’t have the energy to make smartass comments to you. I don’t, but I really want to. From here on out, I’m shootin’ it straight, okay? I’m not going to frame my insults in witty little remarks or pointed quips. This is your warning.”

“All right, well, I’d like to start by saying–”

“Ugly face.” I say, my face mashed against the door.

“What?”

“You have an ugly face, and your ‘son’ back there is lucky he’s adopted so he didn’t end up with a face that looks like a door handle.”

“The Lord made us all in his im–”

“God doesn’t care about us. Why would he care about us?”

“Because we’re all special,you see?”

“Last night I drank a jug of wine, ate a sleeve of graham crackers and threw up on a stranger. How ‘special’ is that?”

“Lord in Heaven,” the man says under his breath. “I’d like to pray for you.”

“And I love God.” My surly demeanor turns to a smile. “He gave me you.” I reach out and give the man a hug. “He gave me you, old sport.” The man seems rejuvenated. “I’ll see you later–when we meet again in His Kingdom. Glory forever.”

“Absolutely, young man. Absolutely.”

“Light and glory and praise and light,” I say, noticing tears welling in the eyes of the old man.

“Thank you for your kindness,” he says. His son stands behind him, also looking at me graciously.

I stand for a moment, the door half closed. “Damn it,” I say and hand the man the wallet I took from him when we hugged. “Sorry. I will keep the book, though.”

The man stood in a stunned silence, then put the wallet back in his pocket, smiled, and bid me a good day.

“Adios, mofos,” I say and shut the door. I return to the couch and my awesome dream.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses are a destructive cult that miss-predicted the end of the world many times and allow little children to die rather than accept a life-saving blood transfusion in severe medical emergencies.

But what you described above ARE NOT Jehovah’s Witnesses. They never say:

Hello, Vinny. It’s clear you don’t come here too often. Practically all of my blogs are exaggerations and lies derived from true events. I like to call this snappy little version of writing I do “fiction” or “satire.” That line you quoted, though, was in fact NOT an exaggeration or a lie. I made practically all of this up. Not that, though. That was real.

I made a Jehova’s Witnesses cry once…. I answered the door wearing a demon mask and jumped at her like I was gonna hump her leg…

I’d be lying if I said I didnt laugh after that happend. because I did.
But I did kind of feel bad… no I didn’t, they lived in the apartment above me and NEVER stopped coming over every sunday for an entire 6 months.